


Adult Content

by Kalya_Lee



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-27
Updated: 2013-06-27
Packaged: 2017-12-16 08:40:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/860162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalya_Lee/pseuds/Kalya_Lee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"John, dear," says Mrs Hudson, sounding concerned, "do you happen to know what on earth a kink meme is?"</p><p>John's blog gets a little too popular.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Adult Content

John was only out to get the shopping.

He comes back within fifteen minutes, arms laden with bread and eggs and milk, fully expecting to find fresh bullet holes in the wall or scorch marks on the kitchen floor. He is not expecting to find Sherlock sitting silently on the sofa, staring at his laptop in a state of orange-blanket catatonia.

John wonders, for a moment, whether a catatonic Sherlock Holmes is meant to herald the end of the universe.

He goes to put the groceries on the kitchen table.

“John!” calls Sherlock from the sofa, and his blatant bewildered panic makes John abandon the eggs and come running. “John, your blog is – it’s _multiplying_!”

John peers over Sherlock’s shoulder at the laptop. He takes one look at the screen and decides that the answer is _yes_.

He is dimly grateful that Sherlock used his own laptop this time, at least.

***

“So I’m guessing you’ve never heard of fanfiction before.”

Sherlock shrugs. “Probably deleted it.”

“Well,” says John, and he sighs, more regretful than resigned, “I wish I could’ve, too.”

***

“Sherlock,” groans John, hanging his coat on the door and rubbing his palms ruefully against his trouser legs. He still smells of antiseptic, but at least it’s not formaldehyde. “Have you been on that website all _day_?”

“No cases, John,” replies Sherlock, not looking up.

John laughs tiredly and goes to get tea. “Yeah, sure. I’ll bet you just like looking yourself up in the internet.”

Sherlock ignores him. The kettle whistles.

“So,” says John, dunking a tea bag in his mug, “read anything interesting, then?”

Sherlock grunts. John adds sugar.

“Bet some of the cases were pretty well-written, at least.”

Sherlock keeps scrolling. John gets the familiar feeling of talking to a brick wall. He takes his tea over to his armchair and decides he doesn’t care.

“Catch yourself a serial killer yet?”

Sherlock sighs. “Four, apparently. Also two mass-murderers, five drug rings and someone trying to steal the crown jewels.” His eyes flick across the computer screen critically, fingers gripping the mouse. “I also managed to identify two _actual_ secret society members and a forger or so.” He smirks slightly. “Lestrade has their IP addresses.”

John takes a sip from his mug. “That’s…. nice.” He wonders, idly, how Sherlock could possibly identify a criminal from an online profile. He knows better than to ask. “So you spent your morning picking fictional cases apart. That sounds nice.”

Sherlock looks away from the screen, finally, and locks eyes with John. John freezes.

“They’re not _all_ casefics, John,” says Sherlock.

There is tea on the floor.

***

“Just for the record, that’s not physically possible.”

“I’m well aware, doctor.”

“Unless, I mean, you had, uh, _surgery_ , you know, but even so only if you decided to keep your…. Uh.”

“No, John, I don’t have a uterus.”

“Right, yes, of course. Right.”

There is a long moment of silence. The page scrolls. Sherlock grimaces.

“I’m fairly certain that _that_ isn’t physically possible either.”

“It is, actually. Leave you with an awful neck crick, though.”

Sherlock stares. John turns a bit pink.

“What?”

***

Sally Donovan rolls her eyes. “What are you doing here, Freak? We’re doing perfectly fine on our own.”

“I can see that, Sergeant,” says Sherlock, picking a photograph off the evidence table with mild interest. “I’m just here to speak to Lestrade. Although,” he looks at her with a smile that isn’t quite a smirk and isn’t quite a grin, slightly predatory, “you could always do with a half-decent beta reader.”

He sweeps out of the room and down the hall to Lestrade’s office in a swirl of black coat and smugness. Sally just stares.

“Hey,” calls Anderson’s voice from across the office, full of defensive indignation, and Sally wants to slap him or possibly just disappear. “You lay off her! At least her stories have actual _plot_. They’re better than Les – oh.”

Sherlock raises his eyebrows. Anderson takes a hasty sip of coffee. Lestrade’s door opens.

“Sherlock,” says Lestrade, looking tired and a bit fond and more than a little _sick-of-this-shit_ , “is everything alright?”

“I’ve got you some more IP addresses,” says Sherlock, glancing at Lestrade glancing at Anderson. “And I wanted to ask about some cold cases, but if you’re having, ah, _staffing problems_ at the moment,” his smirk grows, “I can come back later.”

“Yeah,” sighs Lestrade, “you go ahead and do that. Anderson, in my office, _now_.”

Sherlock raises his eyebrows again, and leaves. Anderson resigns himself to doing paperwork for the next month.

Lestrade spends his lunch break coming up with a new pen name.

***

“So, go on then, I know you want to.”

“You know I want to what?”

“Well, you know, _deduce_ them. Tell me how this one’s a, I don’t know, an airline pilot or something.”

“Aerospace engineer, actually, but close enough. Good work, John.”

“Oh, shut up, that was a guess.”

“Alright, then. Let’s see, neurologist, stock broker, former client, shopgirl, shopgirl, Molly Hooper….”

“ _What?_ ”

***

There are good and bad bits to everything in life, John thinks.

In this case, there has been a distinct lack of body parts in the fridge within the past two weeks. In fact, there has been a distinct lack of body parts in any corner of the flat. That would be the good bit.

The bad bits would be the alarming increase in the number of craters in the kitchen counter, and the very moody Sherlock in the living room.

Also the fact that John’s tea has suddenly become completely tasteless, but John tries not to dwell on that.

“John,” says Sherlock, for the fourth time in half as many hours, in as close to a whine as he will allow his dignified voice to go. “Come _on_ , it’s just –“

“No.”

“But it’s only _Bart’s_.”

“No.”

“Come on, I’ll pay for the cab fare.”

“No.”

“ _Please_?”

John sighs. “Look, Sherlock, I am _not_ going to steal dead-people bits for you. If you wanted them that badly, you shouldn’t have upset Molly.”

“I didn’t upset her!” John snorts. Sherlock glares at him. “All I did was ask her what was so appealing about afflicting me with brain cancer!”

John rolls his eyes and leaves in search of coffee.

***

“Hey, this one’s rather good, actually.”

“Yes, well. _You’re_ not the one supposedly afflicted with a degenerative mental disease.”

“What about this one, then? At least it’s got a happy ending.”

Silence. A small smile.

“I suppose if you and I ever have a daughter, she ought to be an international chess champion.”

“Oh, of course, _that’s_ the bit you like.”

“What did you _think_ I’d like, her name? What kind of cruel parent names their daughter _Eugenia_ , anyway?”

“You’re one to talk, _Sherlock_.”

“Touché.”

***

Mrs Hudson comes in with a pot of tea around noon. John helps her clear the coffee table and digs through the cupboards for biscuits.

They are halfway through their second pack of TimTams when Mrs Hudson purses her lips and smiles up at John, brow slightly furrowed. John suddenly feels a bit queasy. He wonders if he’s suddenly become allergic to chocolate.

“John, dear,” says Mrs Hudson, sounding concerned. “I think Sherlock’s been using my laptop again.”

John takes a sip of tea. He hopes his hand isn’t shaking. “Has he?”

“Well, I don’t know, dear,” Mrs Hudson says, biting her lip. “It’s just that I’ve been seeing both your names pop up on my browser rather a lot, and I didn’t think _you’d_ have any reason to use my computer.”

“No, I don't,” says John, silently bracing himself. “What kind of sites have you got up, then?”

Mrs Hudson winces. “Oh, not very nice ones. Some of them were a little bit confusing, actually, for someone my age.” She chuckles, self-deprecating and a bit bewildered by the memory. “I’m afraid I’m not all up on this internet lingo, you know. D’you think you could explain some of it to me?”

John wants to die. “Sure.”

“Well, for one thing, do you happen to know what on _earth_ a kink meme is?”

John doesn’t choke on his tea. He considers this a major accomplishment.

“It’s, uh, I…” John sets his mug down before he breaks it. “It’s…. not a very nice thing at all.” He gets up just a bit too hastily and heads for the door. “I’ll just, ah, show you how to clear your browser history, shall I?”

Mrs Hudson beams. “Oh yes, thank you, dear.”

***

“By the way, dear, I was wondering….”

“Yes, Mrs Hudson?”

“Well, you see, this _does_ seem rather like Sherlock, I was just wondering – can we be sure that it wasn’t this, this, ah, Moriarty fellow?”

“…… Quite sure.”

“Because Sherlock’s brother _did_ give me his number, you know, in case I see anything suspicious. It wouldn’t be any bother, I could just give him a ring.”

“ _Quite sure_.”

***

“Sherlock, Mrs Hudson’s computer. _Mrs Hudson’s computer_. Really?”

“Mine was busy charging!”

“You nearly scarred her for life!”

“Well, would you rather I used _yours_?”

“….. Never mind.”

***

It has been four months since the day Sherlock clicked a link that changed everything.

In those four months, Sherlock has graduated from FanFiction.net to LiveJournal. John has decided that he liked AO3’s user-friendly format best, and then decided that having format preferences for well-disguised pornography involving him and his best mate probably means he’s been away from his therapist for too long.

In those four months, Sherlock has purged his mental database twenty times, and John has cleared Sherlock’s browser history at least twice that.

In those four months, Sherlock and John have read nearly two hundred fics. Together.

Sherlock is starting to wonder how it could possibly have taken _four whole months_ for any of it to actually sink in.

They have just finished a case involving a rogue, anarchistic ferry captain, a trained monkey, and a long moonlit chase along the Thames. John had been magnificent, keeping stride with him easily for once, and when the ferry captain had cornered Sherlock between the river and a nasty-looking blade he’d actually _shot_ the knife out of the man’s _hand_.

Right now, John’s gun is sitting on the coffee table, and John is practically sitting in Sherlock’s lap.

Sherlock’s laptop is on the opposite end of the couch, taunting him.

“Hold _still_ ,” John says, leaning in with a wad of gauze. His sleeve brushes against Sherlock’s lip.

Sherlock holds still.

“John,” Sherlock says, because this is _important_. “ _John_.”

“Now, this might sting a little,” says John, dabbing a bit of antiseptic on the cut across Sherlock’s cheek. It stings. Sherlock hardly notices.

“ _John_.” John stills, looks Sherlock in the eye. “Thank you. For saving my life.”

It happens in an instant. Sherlock leans forward, and John doesn’t lean back, and it is like all of those stories said that it would be, and it _is –_

_Hot, and wet, and John’s breath against his cheek, and –_

_His lips are dry, and John’s lips are dry, and it’s just a bit fumbling and awkward, and –_

_Just that little bit wrong, and –_

Oh. _Oh._ Well.

John leans back. He bites his lip, sighs a little. “Yeah,” he says, deflating slightly. “I’m definitely not gay, Sherlock. Sorry.”

“I,” says Sherlock, decisive, flushed and flustered but sure. “I don’t think I am, either.”

“Well,” says John, a bit hysterically. “It was worth a shot.”

“It just goes to show,” says Sherlock, running his hands through his hair, “public opinion’s not usually up to much.”

“Right,” says John.

There is a long, awkward silence.

John rolls his shoulders, sighs again. He turns and looks at Sherlock. “Fancy a pint, then?”

Sherlock grins.

 

  


End file.
